


yet you're the hero of my dreams

by nosecoffee



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Coming Out, Dancing, Fencing, Fictional politics, First Kiss, Fluff, Humour, Love Letters, M/M, Panto is no good a thing riding horses, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Silas is no good at fighting or defending himself in any way, Some angst, Suspicion, Teenage Rebellion, They start at like 17 and will continue to their ages in canon, hopeless you might say, i think, like meeting up in secret with your enemies son, meet cute, minor injury, normal teenage activites, teenagers beings teenagers, they make quite a pair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-02-13 12:33:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12984159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosecoffee/pseuds/nosecoffee
Summary: "I do believe I am owed some kind of explanation if I am to be accused of your kidnapping." He says, in an only vaguely-joking tone."I lost control of my horse, and once far enough away from my home, it threw me from its back and galloped off." Panto explains, shortly, through gritted teeth. Silas leads him forward a single step and Panto nearly falls again. "I'm very dizzy, I'm afraid.""Prince Panto Trost, you have terrible luck."(In which all horses are out to get Panto, and Silas is definitely getting his ass kicked when he gets home)





	1. time spent with you

**Author's Note:**

> Work title from "Our Last Summer" by ABBA
> 
> Chapter title from "I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues" by Elton John
> 
> I started writing this before watching 2x09, and then finished it out of spite. Max Landis can make me bury my gays, but he can't stop me writing them before they fucking died (sorry if I just spoiled you)

Silas is not supposed to be out of the castle. Doesn't he know what those Trost pigs would do to him if they found a wayward prince? The Trost's are not beyond crossing borders to get the upper hand in a feud.

Silas isn't really even supposed to be out of his room, but the stone walls felt so stifling he was sure he'd be crushed. They could not contain him. Silas hadn't even woken Wygar or Farson to join him on his little adventure. His head is too full of cotton, too full of whirling thoughts.

He needs air. He needs wind. He needs freedom.

So, Silas, ever the studious, dutiful son where Farson is rebellious, rebels for perhaps the first time in his life, and sneaks out of the castle. Silas saddles up a horse, too quickly, not properly, and rides it out through the castle gates. The guards shout after him, and Silas knows he will be in for a world of trouble when he returns, but for now, he cannot care.

Silas whoops, punches the air with a carefully calculated fist so as to not fall off the horse he so rebelliously stole. He is always accompanied on rides, in classes, at dinner. He is never alone, save for when he sleeps. That is probably the only time he wouldn't be bothered to be accompanied. But he dare not think of that, yet. He's only seventeen. He is much too young to be thinking of any kind of companion that isn't just a teacher.

Silas rides through woodlands, not quite caring where he rides, knowing he'll have to pick his way back to the Dengdamor castle when day breaks. No doubt his mother will have Wygar hang him by his ankles in the dungeon for a day or two. Silas will take it, gladly, for a taste of unadulterated, unsupervised, uncontrolled _freedom_.

He thinks he must be somewhere near the river that divides the Inglenook Valley from the rest of Wendimoor when he decides to dismount and catch his breath. It is only when his horse is secured to a tree and he's taking a long drink of water from the canteen attached to his saddle that he hears small noises of pain, not far away. Silas glances back to the saddle, and finds himself defenceless.

If it is a trap, or something dangerous, he will surely perish. He should ride away. It is almost surely a trap. It is almost surely some kind of highway man, or a Kellum Knight, or, god forbid, a Trost, waiting in the underbrush, disbelieving of their luck to have the Dengdamor prince walk right into their territory.

Silas should run. It is dangerous in the woods, at night. In these dangerous parts, in these dangerous times. He was better off thinking away the cotton in his head in the safety of his bedroom.

Against his better judgement, despite the voice in his head that sounds quite a lot like his mother, the voice that tells him to leave, Silas's curiosity wins out, and he creeps, as quietly as possible, canteen in hand, toward where the pained noises continue to emanate.

He takes a deep breath, once he reaches the edge of the underbrush and sweeps a branch away, brandishing his canteen and preparing a war cry, in his throat.

It is no Kellum Knight waiting in the underbrush to cause some mischief, nor a highway man, or even a Trost. Well, actually, it _is_ a Trost, but not one lying in wait, ready to kill him and start a full on war.

The boy, who looks to be Silas's age, and has that signature pink hair that his mother loathes so much, lies on the ground, head propped up by a rock, clutching at his ribs and crying. Silas lowers his canteen, water sloshing loudly inside, and kneels beside the boy, wary of the blades at his belt.

The boy opens his eyes, and yelps, scrambling as far from Silas as he can before pain overtakes him again, and he collapses, new tears springing to his eyes. Silas holds up his hands in surrender.

"Please, wait, I mean you no harm." Silas says. His mother would surely be disappointed in him. She would have had him bash the boy's head in with his canteen, just to be sure the boy never knew the Dengdamor prince ever strayed from his land.

"As much as I'd love to believe that," the Trost boy chokes out, "I have every reason _not_ to." His hand is pressed hard against his ribs, but it only seems to be causing him more pain. Silas frowns at it, and at the dried blood on the boy's neck.

"Did you hit your head?" He asks, and reaches out to touch the flaking substance with a gloved hand. The boy smacks it away.

"If you're going to kill me, at least make it quick." He snaps, and winces, harshly. "I've suffered long enough."

"I already told you, I mean you no harm." Silas snaps back. He softens, immediately, remembering that this boy is in a lot of pain. He offers his canteen to the boy who rolls his eyes at it. Silas sees how his eyes linger on it. Silas presses it into the boy's hand, and helps him sit up against a nearby tree.

The boy gulps down what's left in the canteen quickly, and some of it trickles from the corners of his mouth. Silas takes back the canteen and resists the urge to wipe away the trickles. The boy does it himself, one hand clutching his ribs, the other swiping his dirty sleeve over his lips.

"Others would condemn you." Silas notes, settling down near the boy, fiddling with the cap on his canteen. "But, I am of the mind that whatever feud is taking place between our kingdoms is pointless, and must come to an end, in the interest of stopping the war that is surely not too far away."

The boy lets his head loll against the trunk of the tree. "And how do you suggest we go about doing that?" His words have less of a bite to them, now. It's simply hopelessness that fills them. It's a hopelessness Silas recognises. "I'm sure if I ever spouted words of peace, my people would call me a traitor."

"I don't know." He admits, and the boy laughs, immediately giving way to pained hissing. "My brother is the revolutionary of the family, I'm afraid, not I."

The boy gazes at him, eyes searching, expression calculating. Silas can't help but glance down at the boy's blades. He wonders why the boy hasn't taken the chance and attacked him, yet, despite his wounds.

"What is your name?" The boy, eventually asks. Silas imagines he must look quite taken aback, because the boy quickly adds, "You seem like a decent fellow, and you have spared me, as of yet. I feel like I should at least know the name of my companion."

He swallows, thickly, wondering if his kindness is his demise, the way his mother has always said. "Silas Dengdamor." He replies, hoping his voice won't crack. Silas isn't ashamed to say he is quite afraid, in that moment.

The boy goes white as a sheet, and for a moment they merely stare at each other. Then, the boy begins to laugh.

Silas is beyond bewildered. "What are the chances, friend?" He asks, so earnestly that Silas's confusion increases tenfold. "What are the odds that you and I would meet, here, with me at your mercy?"

He shakes his head, letting his lips hint at a smile. "I'm not quite sure I catch your meaning, _friend."_ Silas admits.

The boy smiles, if somewhat bitterly, for probably the first time since Silas met him, and holds out his free hand. "Silas Dengdamor, it's lovely to make your acquaintance. I am Prince Panto Trost."

Silas is, quite understandably, shocked. Panto begins to laugh again. "Mean me any harm, now?" He demands, looking hysterical and, Silas realises with alarm, very afraid. "Wish to negotiate peace, now?"

He can't believe that Panto thinks the truth of his identity changes any of what Silas said. He steels himself. Farson was always the fearless one, always the first up the tree, always the first sliding down the banister, always the first to take up his sword in a mock-fight.

In his absence, Silas has to be the fearless one.

"Yes." He says, and Panto looks shocked.

"You're not joking." He says, a simple observation, rather than a question.

"I'm not." Silas replies. "I am not my mother."

"Then you have to know that I am not my father." Panto says, honesty plain as day on his face. "He told me any Dengdamor would want me dead on sight, and much more once learning my name. He would have me believe you have malicious intent."

"There's no malicious intent, here. I simply want to help you. My horse is not far, I can take you home."

"You mustn't!" Panto cries, suddenly all panic, no diplomacy in sight. _What a king he will make,_ Silas allows himself to think. "They won't hesitate to accuse you of kidnapping me! They will do anything to push all the blame on you and your family!"

"Then I will anonymously drop you at the border, and you can walk." Silas says, only half-joking. Panto is badly hurt, and Silas isn't so cruel to make him over acres and acres of farms to return home. "Listen, I'm not much of a warrior, but I'm am the best rider in my kingdom. I'm sure I can get you home without too much fuss."

"Quite a coincidence," Panto says, and actually smiles, with teeth, "that I am the best swordsman in my kingdom, but the worst rider. Hence, me, injured on the ground, nowhere near home."

Silas offers Panto a hand and helps him to his feet, immediately pulling his arm around his shoulders when he feels Panto's knees buckle. Panto hisses and clutches his ribs. Silas hurriedly thinks of something to say, anything to say, to get Panto distracted. "I do believe I am owed some kind of explanation if I am to be accused of your kidnapping." He says, in an only vaguely-joking tone.

"I lost control of my horse, and once far enough away from my home, it threw me from its back and galloped off." Panto explains, shortly, through gritted teeth. Silas leads him forward a single step and Panto nearly falls again. "I'm very dizzy, I'm afraid."

"Prince Panto Trost, you have terrible luck." Silas says, and glances at the back of Panto's head, only to find the hair there matted and absolutely soaked in blood, drying and still wet. He hopes his fear isn't palpable.

"I won't disparage that." Panto huffs, taking another step on shaking legs. Silas can see just how hard he's trying to stay upright. "Although, it might just be fate."

"Fate?" Silas questions, and they emerge from the underbrush. Silas's horse paws at the ground and seems to stare into his soul. He sticks his tongue out at it, and Panto laughs. Silas is getting quite fond of his laugh.

"That I was driven out of my kingdom by a horse, just so you could come upon me." He clarifies.

"A little too far fetched for me." Silas admits, and sets Panto down against the tree by his horse. He goes back to the underbrush in search of his canteen.

"You don't believe in fate?" Panto calls after him, and Silas nearly trips over his canteen in the darkness.

"I believe that everything happens for a reason." He calls back, and steadies himself against a tree trunk. He emerges not long after that, and Panto actually seems to brighten, seeing him.

He hums, without any apparent melody or beat, as Silas fixes his canteen back onto the saddle. "Did I?" Panto eventually asks, once Silas has checked everything.

"Did you what?" He almost sighs, although he isn't truly exasperated by Panto. In fact, he quite enjoys him, but he'd never say.

"Happen for a reason?" Panto clarifies, and Silas can't stop the smile that blooms on his lips. Panto follows the movement with his eyes.

"I should hope so." Silas admits, not quite letting himself hope that this meeting was, in fact, fate. That perhaps they can bring peace to the kingdoms. He shakes his head if the thought. "Panto Trost, you ask some very strange questions."

"Silas Dengdamor, I don't know how you've put up with me for this long." He replies, and watches Silas readjust his cloak.

"Guess I'm just lucky." Silas says.

"Well, one of us has to be." Panto responds, shrugging.

Silas helps him back onto his feet, sides pressed together. His mind wanders, back to a train of through from not too long ago. Maybe he could be Panto's friend. Maybe he could sneak out of the castle to see him, meet him in the forest. Maybe Farson won't be the only family rebel, anymore.

"How can I trust you won't stab me in the back while I take you home?" He asks Panto, quite seriously, once they're ready to embark.

"I've already had one horse-related incident today. I'm unlikely to want another." Silas raises an eyebrow at Panto's cheeky grin. Panto sobers, if only a smidgen. "You have my word as a prince and as your ally. I want _no more_ conflict."

Silas helps him onto the back of his horse and climbs up, himself. He barely represses a shiver when Panto's arms wrap around his waist. His breath is caught in his throat.

He swallows the breath, hoping he won't choke. "Tell me if you need to stop." He says, horse trotting forward a few paces. "Riding dizzy is never pleasant."

He feels Panto nod against his shoulder. "Of course." Silas nods back, and then snaps at the reigns.

And they're off.


	2. laughing like children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hasn't seen that face in two years. He hadn't expected to ever see that face again. Panto looks equally shocked, if a bit muted. Silas shakes his head as Panto opens his mouth, to try and stop him, because he quite obviously recognises him, even if the night they met was dark, and Panto was addled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title, once again, from "I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues" by Elton John
> 
> I'd say oops, but I'm actually not sorry

Understandably, Silas's first, and, ironically, last, rebellious stint has pretty much all of his privileges revoked over the course of two years. At least Farson seems mildly impressed.

Silas takes his punishment with as much grace as he can manage, and resigns himself to being bored in lessons and only ever seeing the outside world through the windows of the castle. It was terribly foolish, he admits, to have run away so obviously, even if he always meant to return.

Fortunately, Silas survives his enforced vacation from the outside world, and wins his mother's favour once more. He has an escort on horse rides - and while Silas loathes being watched every second of his life, he supposes it's just what he gets - and is never unaccompanied down to the markets, but it's better than the stifling stone walls of his bedroom, and all of the twisting, turning halls that he wanders when he cannot sleep.

Everything from the night he escaped the castle seems to be a hazy dream that he dares not think about until he is alone, lest his longing for another such night show on his face. Silas resigns himself to the knowledge that he is not likely to ever wander the woods again, and that any Trost's in peril will just have to wait for someone else to come upon them.

Silas considers sitting in on court proceedings with his mother to be the worst of the duties he is now made to endure. He could actually not be more bored. He'd rather be hung by his ankles in the dungeon. It would at least give Wygar something to do that isn't watching him like a hawk for all hours of the day.

Who is Silas kidding? Wygar would probably be forced to watch him, even then, just to be sure he didn't escape.

Silas tolerates court.

Or, he did, until today.

A bewildered and flustered guard comes rushing in, with a message that they will soon be receiving a visit from a Trost representative. His mother huffs and rolls her eyes, and tells the guard to be ready. She seems utterly bored with the concept. For Silas, it's the most exciting thing to happen since Farson filled Wygar's bed with marshmallows.

Silas smooths a crease out of his vest. His mother watches him do it.

"Don't speak to the representative." She instructs him, and something sinks like a stone in Silas. "They will hear from me and me only. Understood?"

"Understood, mother." Silas replies, lips barely moving.

They wait the next few minutes in silence, and then the guard from earlier opens the doors and leads in their pink-haired representative. Silas is shocked when he sees the boy's face.

He hasn't seen that face in two years. He hadn't expected to _ever_ see that face again. Panto looks equally shocked, if a bit muted. Silas shakes his head as Panto opens his mouth, to try and stop him, because he quite obviously recognises him, even if the night they met was dark, and Panto was addled.

Silas's mother follows Panto's gazing and her lips thin further. Panto closes his mouth, nodding, politely, to Silas. Silas nods back. "What are you staring at, boy?" His mother barks, and Panto's attention snaps to her.

"My _sincere_ apologies, my lady." He goes to his knee, bowing deeply. Silas is actually quite impressed with how quickly he regained his composure. "I'm afraid I am not adept in negotiations, quite yet, but I am one of the best in court. I am Prince Panto Trost, and my father sent me to negotiate trade deals with you, for the upcoming winter."

Silas loses track of the conversation after his mother makes a pleased noise at Panto's manners. He's mostly transfixed by watching Panto negotiate, politely and surprisingly well, with his mother.

Panto has grown since Silas last saw him. He's become taller, and filled out, his shoulders broader, his jaw more defined. Silas can't deny that he is quite attractive. He sometimes glances in Silas's direction and catches his eye. Silas notes the small smile that blooms on his lips.

"Silas?" He jumps a bit at the sound of his mother's voice, much less stern than before. He turns to her and sees her almost smiling. Which is strange. She only smiles at Farson nowadays. "Escort Prince Trost to his horse."

"Of course." His reply comes out too rushed and he stands up too fast. She raises an eyebrow. She never as him escort anyone from the court. Silas swallows, and then descends the stairs to join Panto on the court floor.

Panto bows one last time. "Thank you, my lady. A good evening to you and your family." Silas joins him by his side as they exit the room. He doesn't dare reach for Panto until they're out of her sight.

He wraps his hand around Panto's elbow, and after glancing both ways down the hallway, tugs him into an alcove. Panto makes no noise of protest.

Silas releases him almost at once, but Panto makes no move to exit, nor indicates that he is unhappy with the current arrangement. "I was about to do the same." Panto says, and Silas leans back against the wall.

"I should take charge more often." Silas notes, and Panto laughs softly. His humour soon dissipates and Silas bites his lip, allowing the hopelessness to overtake him in a way he never does unless he's alone. "I thought I'd never see you again."

At this, Panto frowns. "I thought the same of you. I went back to that place in the forest a few days later, hoping fate would let us meet again, but you never showed." He bows his head, voice lowering even more than before. "I _hoped_ that you would."

"My mother had me locked in a tower for two years. I wanted to ride out to see you. I did. But any further transgressions against my mother's house rules could have proved dire for me." Silas, against his better judgement, reaches out and touches the back of Panto's head. "How's your head? And your _ribs!_ God, they must have been _broken!"_

"Silas, my friend, that was two years ago. I am _much_ recovered from then." Panto smiles widely at him, prying Silas's hands, gently, from the back of his head and his chest. Silas blushes, but does not move any further away. "But thank you for your concern."

He nods, trying to make himself think. It seems for all he is praised for being intelligent, all his brains prove useless with Panto. In consolation for his lost thoughts, he's supplied with butterflies in his stomach. "I confess, I thought of you, often." He finds himself blurting out. It's the only thing that will roll off his tongue.

"And I you." Panto replies, and Silas allows himself a sigh of relief. He had not overstepped as he thought he had. "Do you believe in fate yet?"

"I'd be inclined to." Silas admits. The world has given him every reason to, especially with this wonderful, new event taking place. Panto, perhaps the only person to treat him like a human being in a long time, here, in his home. Silas can't help but think how wonderfully he'd fit in here. "You're the main reason though."

"What are the odds that you'd be in court the day I came to call?" Panto asks, quietly, and though Silas is the only one to hear it, he thinks he was perhaps not the person to answer the question.

"Very slim." It is only then that Silas realises just how close they are. He flushes dark red and back away. Panto follows Silas out of the alcove, and they walk, as slowly as they can excuse towards the stables. "So you rode here? Can I assume you've improved since I last saw you?"

Panto makes an odd face that's somewhere between amused and coy. "Well, I can't claim to be _the best rider in the kingdom,_ like some, but I'm not _rubbish,_ anymore." He says, obviously jokingly referring to Silas's boasting in the woods, the night they met.

"And for that, we are all much safer." Silas jokes back, and Panto laughs. They don't speak on the rest of the walk to the stables, but Silas doesn't care. Panto's presence is comfortable, far from awkward, and pleasant in a way that makes Silas ache. He wants Panto to stay. He knows he can't.

He stops Panto just before he mounts his horse. "I'd like to see you again."

Panto's expression is fond. "If these trade negotiations go well, I can only assume that we'll be seeing a lot more of each other. Fear not, my friend. I won't go about getting locked in a tower. You have my word." He takes Silas's hand and bends down to kiss it. "Farewell, Silas."

"Farewell, Panto." The words come out as barely a murmur, and then Panto mounts his horse and rides it out of the gates. He wasn't wrong, he's _certainly_ not rubbish.

Is there nothing Panto Trost isn't perfect at?

Silas takes his time walking back to court. His mother raises an eyebrow once he returns. "What took so long?" She asks, but her tone isn't nearly as stern as it usually is. That's...strange. He hopes it's not one of her many interrogation techniques. He hopes Panto softened her.

"He's quite an...interesting person." Silas replies, carefully picking his words so as to not arouse any suspicion. "We got caught up talking."

"About what?" His mother inquires, leaning forward, a bit, in her seat.

He gulps, trying not to think too hard of Panto's smile when Silas was still focused on the wounds that had long since healed. "Trade negotiations." He lies. "He is quite obviously devoted to his duty."

"And rightly so. Boy like that? Wastes not a second in politics." Ah, so it was Panto that softened her. He should visit them more often. "Gives me some hope that those Trost pigs can change even the tiniest bit."

And she's back.

"What did you think of him?" She says, relaxing into the back of her chair, looking not quite that interested in Silas, anymore.

"He's nice." Silas admits, and bites his tongue to stop himself from revealing anything more than that. He clears his throat and squares his shoulders. "I think he could do good for both our kingdoms."

His mother makes a mildly-interested noise, and her mouth twists in a way that Silas doesn't recognise, clicking her tongue. She gives him a calculating look. "You're dismissed, Silas." She eventually says.

Silas can't help but sag. "To my room?" He asks, on impulse.

"If you like." She responds in an almost surely faux-bored voice. And then she smiles at him. "Or, you could take Wygar on a ride with you."

He can't help but perk up like a child offered extra dessert. _"Really,_ mother?" He cries.

She nods, "Be back before dinner, or I'll have you thrown in the dungeon for a night."

"Of course." Silas says, and bows before rushing, in quite a un-princely fashion from the room. The idea that he's being permitted to leave the castle, for a time, with only _one_ escort? It's a dream come true!

He rushes up to his room to get properly prepared for riding, and someone knocks on his door. Silas turns, and his mouth quirks at the sight of Wygar, here as if summoned.

"Wygar! _Fantastic!"_ He cries, clapping his friend on the shoulder and pulling on his second riding boot.

"You are quite smiley today." Wygar notes from the doorway. Silas grins a little wider, standing with his feet apart almost the length of his shoulders to get a good feel for the boots again.

"I have reason." He replies, almost giddily. "My mother has permitted me to go riding, with only you as my escort!"

"Ah. Reason for smiles, then." And Wygar smiles back at him, not a common occurance, but welcome all the same. Silas pulls a cloak around his shoulders, just as Wygar says, "What about that prince from earlier?"

He stops dead in his tracks. Had Wygar seen them whispering in the alcove? Had he seen them down in the stable, looking at each other with stars in their eyes? Had he seen Silas's breath hitch when Panto kissed his hand? "What about him?" Silas asks, cautiously.

"Him making you smile, too?" Wygar inquires further. It's obvious he wants answers that Silas is not prepared to give him. "You were gazing at him, all moony eyed during negotiations."

There, at least, is an explanation for his inquiry. Silas gulps. "He's...quite handsome is all." He allows himself to say.

"Oh, yes?" And when Silas looks up, Wygar is smiling widely again.

"Yes, he..." Silas trails off before he can even begin to try to explain how he feels for the pink haired prince. He doesn't _know_ how he feels about Panto, quite yet. All he knows is that when they speak to each other, he can't think properly, and his stomach fills with frantic little butterflies. He can't tell Wygar that. He can't tell him _any_ of that. "You shouldn't be supporting this, Wygar." He says, sadly, hands still clutching the cloak on his shoulders.

"And why not?" Wygar asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Because I should not have even a _remote_ attraction to a Trost at all, much less the next head of their family!" Silas cries, letting the fear in the back of his mind sneak forward. It's all well and good to accidentally come upon a rival prince in the wood and do the right thing. Speaking in low voices in alcoves and agreeing to meet again, sometime, in secret? More than foolhardy. Silas must have a death wish. Either that or Panto is a Mage and has him under his spell. Even with the danger, Silas would gladly follow him to the ends of the earth. It's just that it cannot be. "It's silly to fuel such an infatuation when it will go nowhere."

"I was only teasing Silas." Wygar says, and pulls the cloak properly over his shoulders. "I'm sorry for upsetting you." And he taps Silas's chin, the way his mother used o when he was young and had skinned his knee. _Chin up, Silas. Things will all turn out fine._

Silas shakes his head and waves the cobweb thoughts away. "It's fine. I know you didn't mean anything by it, I just got worked up." He nods to Wygar, letting his steel resolve set in place. It's better if he does not think of Panto. It's better if he is just a prince, trying to win his mother's favour again. "Let's go, I want to have a good ride before sundown."

(Less than halfway through the ride, Silas dismisses his resolve, and allows himself to daydream of the other prince. It's the best horse ride he's been on in years.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I don't know when the next chapter will be out, but I'll try to get it out soon. If you like doing this, please let me know what you liked about it in the comments, and/or leave me a kudos. Track me down on Tumblr @nose-coffee, we can cry together over 2x09. Again, thank you!


	3. living like lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In his half-asleep, half-awake haze, Silas realises they will not disturb him all day, and he can instruct Wygar to deflect any servants sent to deliver him food, without letting Wygar in on too much. He sends a note back, very short, a time and place scrawled on it, and he hatches a plan.
> 
> (The plan does involve setting fire to part of the castle, but he can't be caught in the stables, and the servants who help put out fires are also the servants who care for the horses.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM NOT DEAD!
> 
> I know I abandoned this fic a while ago but inspiration struck me, so here's a third, even cuter chapter.
> 
> Chapter title, once again, from "I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues" by Elton John.

The first letter comes only a week later. Silas’s mother has still not stopped waxing vaguely offensive poetic about Panto, and Farson wanders the castle with a less-than-sunny disposition at losing his throne of favourite son to Panto Trost.

Silas cannot say he isn't pleased.

He is expecting something small, perhaps. A discreet note, a time and place, just a signature and return address.

But what he gets - inside a bent envelope delivered to him by Wygar from a servant who won't say a word about it - is something akin to a love letter. Which, while not unwelcome, is still unexpected. (It still makes mention of meeting up outside of the castle, and Silas finds himself planning in advance for that trip.) Silas finds himself reading it over and over by wavering candlelight with his door locked and a chair wedged under the handle, tracing words with his finger.

He can't help himself.

Silas buries his face in his bedsheets and laughs until the butterflies disperse from his stomach.

He spends the rest of the night trying to compose a letter that might have the same effect on Panto, though he truly doubts that Panto would have anywhere near the same reactions to a love letter.

He comes up fruitless, frustrated that he can't write the way Panto can. It's infuriating that every word sounds wrong with another, that everything is jarring and off and he can't get himself to write anything coherent.

‘ _Dear Prince Trost_ ’ seems too formal, and ‘ _Dear Panto_ ’ seems too informal.

Silas turns in, very late, ink under his nails and words running circles in his head. Words that he can't dismiss. Farson is the first to notice him about to pass out in his eggs, at breakfast, the next morning, from pure exhaustion, only moments before Silas does so. His mother thinks him sick and sends him to bed, immediately.

In his half-asleep, half-awake haze, Silas realises they will not disturb him all day, and he can instruct Wygar to deflect any servants sent to deliver him food, without letting Wygar in on too much. He sends a note back, very short, a time and place scrawled on it, and he hatches a plan.

(The plan does involve setting fire to part of the castle, but he can't be caught in the stables, and the servants who help put out fires are also the servants who care for the horses.)

Silas carries it out as neatly as he can, even though the castle is almost literally a maze and he's trying not to get spotted, and he makes it to the stables in record time. After that, it's as simple as pulling the hood of his cloak far down his face and hoping he won't be recognised.

He rides. Faster than he has in two years, as fast as when he rode to get Panto home safely, before heading home, stomach weighed down with dread.

Finding the place in the forest where they'd met is tricky. It is light now, and that is two years past, but Silas trusts he will end up where he needs to be, and does not allow his pace. He can only hope that Panto isn't too far from him. Silas rides, slowly, into a small clearing of tree roots and low shrubbery. He can safely assume that this is the place.

And so, sure that he has arrived at the right destination, he gets off his horse, secures it to a nearby tree, and waits.

As it turns out, he does not have to wait very long.

Panto appears from underbrush, very suddenly, puffing, and leaning his hands on his knees once he registers Silas is there and he's in the right place. Silas waits until he's upright again to offer him the canteen on his horses saddle.

“I confess, I wasn't sure if you'd show up.” Silas says, as Panto drains the all-but full canteen. Panto wipes at his mouth with the back of his sleeve, smiling his thanks as he hands it back to Silas.

“After receiving your letter, I left as soon as I could.” He replies, inhaling deeply to catch his breath.

“I'm on a very little amount of borrowed time, right now. My friend is stalling, for me. Even with as little surveillance as I'm under now, I still am not given many hours to myself.” Panto gives him a dubious look, and Silas turns away, putting the canteen back. “It was a fluke I could come here today.”

“I'm glad that you did.” Panto replies, sounding as though he was holding himself back before. Silas pretends to adjust a buckle on the saddle. He doesn't know why he suddenly feels so nervous. It's not like he's secretly meeting up, in a secluded part of the forest, with the son of his family’s greatest enemy - except that, yes, that's _exactly_ what he's doing, and it's incredibly dangerous. Silas focuses back in on what Panto is saying. “I am allowed time to myself to study and train. I can only assume that your mother is stricter than my parents, when it comes to your studies and such.”

“Most of my studies are concluded, although I have not endured much in the way of ‘training’.” Silas comments, turning back to face him. “I imagine you mean fencing?”

“I do. Like I said, I am the best swordsman in my kingdom.” Panto gestures for them to walk out of the clearing and towards the ravine, and Silas tells himself this isn't some long ploy to get him killed. “How much have you learnt?”

“Just the basics, when I was a boy, and I admit I am quite poor at it.” He replies, and matches Panto’s slow pace. “I prefer to just sit in on court proceedings and hope I pick techniques and such up, even though it's disasterously boring.”

“A strange method, I'll admit, but admirable, nonetheless.” Panto says, nodding, and smiles, strangely, at Silas. Silas returns it with a nervous smile of his own. He will not let his mother’s paranoia bleed into him. “I believe my kingdom is more battle-prone than yours. Either that, or my father is too paranoid, and my mother too agreeable.”

“I have not heard as much of your mother as I have your father.” Silas prompts him, settling into the conversation. “Would you care to tell me about her?”

Panto smiles, coyly at him, “And here I thought you came to talk about me!”

“How could I ever, when there's so much of your family to learn!” He replies with just as much teasing in his tone.

“She is kinder than my father. I fear the disagreement between our families stems from my father's side of the family. My mother would like nothing more than to make peace and live in harmony with each other. I admit I confided in her my meeting with you, two years ago. I trust her with my life, and to cover my back as I cover hers. She is a fantastic warrior. I learned the best things I know from her.”

“I'd love to meet her, though I'm afraid things are too turbulent in recent times to permit such a thing.” Silas says, stepping over a tree root with only minor difficulty, steadying himself on the trunk. It seems that Panto noticed.

“I disagree.” Panto replies and offers Silas his hand. Silas takes it gratefully. “These trade negotiations might do the trick and perhaps end this feud.”

“You are hopeful.” Silas comments.

“And you more diplomatic than I expected. You are commendable.”

“I can't make sense of this.” Silas admits, scuffing his shoe against the soft earth.

“How's that?” Panto replies, sounding quietly amused. How he could become so relaxed around Silas so quickly still befuddles him.

He doesn't look as he says, “I find we are so finely matched that we don't match at all.”

“What does that mean?” Is the response he receives.

Silas sighs. “It means that we’re both princes - high stationed princes - who wish for freedom and peace in this land and at this time, and have found solace in each other, yet the very thought of our few meetings would send our people into war.”

They reach the edge of the ravine, a wooden fence the last line of defence for someone coming near the edge. “You wish for peace?” Panto asks, quietly, and they both lean against the aged wood.

“Don't be absurd; how could I not?” He says, closing his gloved hands around the fence. “Everyone wishes for peace, even the warmongering type.”

“I thought your brother was the revolutionary of your family.” He chuckles, and Silas finally looks back up at him, and his smile is so dazzling Silas feels dizzy.

“Things change. He still is.” His recovery is slow and clumsy, as his mother so likes to point out, but Panto does not seem to notice. Silas shrugs. “I'm much more quiet about my revolution.”

“Things change, you say. How so?” He grins, his smile wide, and leans against the fence, facing Silas. “What has changed for you?”

“Well, you.” Silas admits.

“Me?” The grin shrinks, replaced with a vaguely shocked look.

“You changed my life.” Silas continues. “I'd never even met a Trost before I met you, and I think you gave me the best impression of your family, possible.”

“But I was awful to you.” Panto protests, straightening up.

“You were hurt, you were upset.” Silas reasons, going so far as to place a hand on Panto’s shoulder, in reassurance. “You thought I would kill you because of who I was. I completely understand.”

“I never apologised.” His hand slips from Panto’s vest back down to his side, but, it is quickly recaptured by Panto’s hand. Silas barely stifles a gasp.

“You didn't have to.” Silas says, voice lowering. “You were forgiven immediately.”

Panto gives him a searching look, leaning ever closer, their intertwined hands caught between their chests. “How can you be a real person?” Panto asks him.

“I don't quite catch your meaning.” Silas replies, dizzily.

“You just…” Panto pauses, looking frustrated as he tries to find the right words. “You seem too good to be true. Like a dream.”

“Don't say that, it's not true.” Silas laughs it off, using their clasped hands to playfully push at Panto’s chest. “If anyone's a dream, here, it's you.”

“Probable, I'll admit,” Panto agrees, jokingly, and leans away, “but dreams don't get thrown from their horses backs, only to be found by a handsome prince.”

Silas laughs, even if he feels a little disappointed when Panto releases his hand. He shakes his head, saying, “You're something else.”

“As are you.” Panto shoots back, and smiles, again.

~

After that, he it's like he has a secret life.

He is the dutiful, albeit second favourite child, doing all his princely activities around the castle, and sitting in on court proceedings. But, of course, when Panto is negotiating in court with his mother, Silas allows himself to just sit and stare, well aware that no one who saw would dare call him out on it. He walks Panto down to the stables to fetch his horse when it's done. And if he pulls him aside, in an alcove, to confer with him, privately, is that anyone's business?

 _It's not_ , Silas thinks, triumphantly, to himself.

Silas lives for those private moments, hungering for them the minute they part, and it doesn't really occur to him that it's something other than friendly for a while.

He sees Panto in court, and pretends he’s merely interested in an outsider, rather than being particularly interested in whether the outsider is wearing his sister's stolen boots the way Silas had dared him to.

He is, and Silas has to bite his hand to stop from laughing. Panto sees him grinning like a fool and grins back.

~

_Dear Panto,_

_Did Litzibitz kill you? You must invite me to the funeral if she did. And don’t tell her it was my idea._

_Sincerely, Silas_

* * *

 

_Dear Silas,_

_She went on a long rant about how I should be properly executed before passing out and forgetting all about it. The next time you want me killed, please do it yourself. It would be better than facing my sister’s wrath._

_Sincerely, Panto_

* * *

 

_Dear Panto,_

_And here I thought you saw me as your friend! All along you kept me around as your escape plan. How dishonourable._

_Sincerely, Silas_

* * *

 

_Dear Silas,_

_On the contrary, while seeing your face is escape enough from my mundane life, I would never wish harm to come to you, especially in the form of you being charged for my murder._

_Sincerely, Panto_

* * *

 

_Dear Panto,_

_Seeing my face is escape enough, is it? You are quite the charmer, Panto Trost._

_Sincerely, Silas_

* * *

 

_Dear Silas,_

_Or maybe you're just lucky._

_Sincerely, Panto_

~

Silas has made it quite clear throughout the entirety of their friendship that he is no good with swords. And today, Panto has decided he's going to remedy that.

They're standing in the clearing they've come to know as their own, stripped of their vests, holding practice swords. Silas fears that he has not improved enough to confidently keep Panto from potential accidental harm.

“Raise your sword a little higher, Silas,” Panto directs from across the clearing, circling him with practiced steps. Silas feels like he’s permanently stumbling, and can't imagine he looks particularly impressive.

“I don't know why you think you can train me when so many others have failed.” Silas admits, following Panto’s orders and rolling his shoulders back into a more comfortable position. At Panto’s raised eyebrow, Silas quickly adds, “It's not an attack on your skills, it's just that I'm quite hopeless.”

“Maybe I like a challenge.” Panto replies, shrugging.

Silas scoffs, “No wonder you're my mother's favourite son.” He comments, offhandedly.

“How so?” Panto inquires, cocking his head, and then lunging.

Silas manages to block his strike, and Panto grins at him. “You're quite the charmer.” He answers, panting a bit from the effort of defending himself from the sudden attack. No one’s ever really gotten this far with him, before, so he can give Panto credit for that.

“You're feeling charmed?” Panto asks, settling back into his circling stance.

He laughs a bit, at this. “You'll have to try a bit harder to get a definite answer from me.” Silas tells him, and attacks. Panto easily fights him off, but even Silas can tell his moves are slowed for his benefit. Silas can only imagine he's deadly in a real fight.

They stop for a break, after that, drinking from their respective canteens and tossing grapes at each other’s mouths to see who can catch the most. And when Panto gets to his feet again, obviously energised, Silas can't help but groan.

“Already tired out, Prince Dengdamor?” Panto teases.

Silas laughs, but he aches as he gets to his feet. “I wasn't made for fighting, my friend.” He says, and watches Panto wipe sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Ah, I see.” Panto grins, and sets down his sword, seemingly changing tactics. “How is your dancing, then?”

“Oh,” and Silas wonders when they stopped having balls at the castle, “atrocious in comparison to yours, I'm sure. I'm wildly out of practice, I'm afraid.”

“Well, we have many festivals and balls and such, so there is much cause for dancing.” Panto informs him, and approaches him, cautiously, more cautiously than he had when they'd been attempting sword practice. Almost as if Panto was well aware of the risks that came with holding a weapon in his hand, but ill equipped to understand the risks that came with dancing with Silas.

Silas isn't sure what is risky about it. “You're not going to try and teach me how to dance, now, are you?” He asks, a tad nervously. “I have two left feet, I guarantee.”

“Well,” Panto replies, raising an eyebrow, “there's only one real way to find out.”

Panto takes one of Silas’s hands and puts it on his shoulder, taking the other in his own hand. Silas shivers when he feels Panto’s bare hand press to the thin material of his shirt at his waist and pretends he doesn't see how Panto notices.

Panto hums as he leads them in small circles around the clearing.

“Are you teaching me how to lead, or how to be led?” Silas asks, eventually, feeling considerably dizzy.

“How to be led.” Panto replies, a little distractedly. Silas can understand that, now that he knows he’s leading the dance.

“Wouldn't it be better if I knew how to lead?” Silas questions, and smiles as bit as he gets the hang of the dance, feeling more confident in his steps.

Panto hums, again, absently. “Why’s that?”

“So I can lead ladies in dances.” Panto’s eyes lock with his.

“Ah, I see.” He says, breaking away, stopping the dance, abruptly, going a bit pink in the cheeks. “Someone to rule your kingdom with?”

“No, merely for pleasantries. To make my mother happy.” Silas waves a hand to dismiss the idea, and nods to Panto that he's ready for whatever comes next. Dancing comes much more naturally to him. “She knows full well I will not wed a woman.”

“Is that so?” Panto’s brow is creased in mild confusion, and a glimmer of hope.

Silas doesn't know what to make of him. “My interests have never laid with them.” He informs his companion, as he takes Silas’s hand, bare skin to bare skin, and leads him in a spin.

“With men, then?” Comes the soft inquiry. Panto is not so often soft, nor does he ever wish to be. Silas wonders what about the conversation has caused his friends shyness.

“Yes. With men.” Silas agrees, practicing the spin, again, and looking up at Panto, who has the strangest look on his face. There's a panicked flutter in his stomach. “I haven't scared you off have I? I cannot tell you how many people have been scared away by such a proclamation.”

“No, not at all.” Panto is quick to assure him, and they break away from each other, putting a bit of distance between their bodies. “I was just wondering how to say I feel the same.”

“Do you?” Silas says, against his better judgement, eyebrows rising.

“Well,” and Panto goes a bit pinker than before. He rubs the back of his neck and the hem of his shirt rises enough for Silas to catch a scandalous glimpse of his skin, just above the waistline of his pants. “I am fond of women, it is true, but also men.”

Silas nods, almost to himself, feeling a grin spread across his face. “I see.” He says.

Panto’s eyebrows scrunch. “You don't think it's strange?” He questions, in a most bewildered fashion.

“Why should I?” Silas asks him. “You love who you love. It's not up to me to make that choice for you or to tell you that your choice is wrong.”

Panto is a bit speechless when Silas positions their hands, again, and attempts to lead them in the dance. Panto quietly coaches him through it, and once they've struck up a rhythm it's easy as breathing.

“I must say I'm pleasantly surprised.” Panto admits, once Silas tries the spin.

“Must you?” Silas asks, cheekily, and watches in satisfaction as Panto grins.

Their dance slows to a stop and Panto gazes at him with an unreadable look in his eyes. “I've said it before and now I find myself saying it again; you are something else, Silas Dengdamor.”

“Something good, Panto Trost?” Silas asks him.

“The best.” Panto says, and Silas decides he must be the bold one, in this situation. After all, he couldn't very well have Farson kissing Panto for him, now, could he? Silas leans up and kisses the pink haired prince, his mouth slack and pliant under his own.

For a moment, Silas fears he misjudged, and then Panto kisses him back with the same level of enthusiasm he had when teaching Silas how to fence. Silas puts aside all thoughts of how dangerous this act is, and simply kisses Panto like he's wanted to for so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, even after all this time. If you liked this chapter, please let me all about it I never the comments, and if you haven't, yet, please consider leaving me a kudos.
> 
> Hmu on Tumblr @nose-coffee to ask questions or just scream at me in general.
> 
> Again, thanks.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please let me know exactly what you liked, down in the comments, and/or leave me a kudos to show me your appreciation for my work. You can track me down on Tumblr @nose-coffee, and we can cry together about 2x09.
> 
> Thanks, again! Hope you liked it!


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